The Hijack

by Duncan Falconer

  Raz was interested in Stratton and what he was doing here, and his gut instinct warned him something was in the wind, but that hunch did not come from Stratton, who gave little away, but from his companion. He had looked stressed and nervous during the drive from the airport and appeared half-dead from worry. Raz had authorised a costly surveillance operation against Stratton and would soon have to provide his bosses with his reasons, and a hunch was not good enough to maintain it. He planned to keep up the watch at least until he had received Stratton’s brief and then he would re-evaluate the situation.

  He looked at the clock on the wall. It was ten thirty. Time to contact Mr Stratton and hear what he had to say, although he was not expecting very much. Whatever the Englishman was up to, Raz was no doubt going to have to find out for himself.

  His mobile phone rang in his pocket and he dug it out, hit the key and put it to his ear. ‘Raz.’

  As he listened, he got to his feet and headed for the door, knocking papers off a desk and not stopping to pick them up. Seconds later he was running out through the entrance, past the building’s security guard and down the broad stone steps, waving for his driver who was waiting outside reading a newspaper.

  Stratton and Abed hurried along the street, passing a school on one side and a heavily secured government building on the other, and closed on a Y-junction which was the start of a densely populated shopping area. Stratton paused on the triangle in the road to study his options, Abed behind him, both men panting heavily.

  ‘Why are we chasing him?’ Abed asked.

  ‘He has a bomb,’ Stratton said. There was still no point in anyone knowing what kind of bomb, and, besides, he needed Abed and did not want him taking off in the opposite direction.

  ‘The Al Aqsa mosque in the old city,’ Abed said.

  ‘If he wants to attack Islam that is the place. Is he of the Islam faith?’

  Stratton had not thought about that. It was an interesting question, but did not appear on Zhilev’s profile. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘If not, he will not be permitted into the square. Only those of the faith may enter.’

  Zhilev did not need to put the bomb in the mosque to raise it to the ground, but the old city would be a good place for the explosion. It would read better in the press reports.

  ‘The old city straight ahead?’ Stratton asked, indicating the road crammed with shops, barrows and swarms of people.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Abed said. ‘I have never been to Jerusalem before.’Abed asked a passer by who pointed down the street.

  They moved quickly into the throng, slowed by the density of the crowds, and headed down the steep, snaking road that became narrower as it divided into a fork. They paused at the split. Abed looked around for a sign, found one, and confirmed some information with a passing shopper.

  ‘That leads to the Damascus Gate,’ Abed said to Stratton, indicating the right fork. ‘And that one to Herod’s Gate.’

  ‘You take that one.’

  ‘What do I do if I see him?’

  ‘Stay with him,’ Stratton shouted as he continued down the busy hill. Without communications there was not much else he could do. If Abed did find Zhilev, he had a better chance of following him unnoticed since he wasn’t white. Stratton did not think he needed to tell Abed to tackle Zhilev if he thought the Russian was about to detonate the device. He had a feeling Abed would have a go if he thought there were no other options.

  The bottom of the street got even narrower and became crammed with mini-buses, obviously the local bus depot, and Stratton pushed through and broke out into a broad street that ran across his front. Beyond the street the ancient white stone walls of the old city spread in front of him, the great, gold, bulbous dome of the Al Aqsa mosque rising out of the city in the distance.

  He crossed the street, dodging traffic, and stopped at the top of a broad, jagged semi-circle of steps that formed an amphitheatre in front of a large fortress façade with battlements on top and an arch at the centre that led into the city. Stratton paused to scan the people milling around the amphitheatre where several traders had set up shop on the steps offering shoes, clothes, cheap electronics and fruit and vegetables. There was no sign of a big white man so Stratton ran down the steps to the floor of the amphitheatre and followed it across a stone bridge over a moat that once helped protect the gate from being stormed. The entrance led immediately into a hall packed with vendors, and beyond was the entrance into the city proper, around a tight corner guarded by half a dozen Israeli police and soldiers, the police armed with pistols, the soldiers with M16 assault rifles.They were watching everyone who passed in and out, occasionally selecting someone to search. Stratton was suddenly aware of the gun in his pocket, but the need to press forward and find Zhilev was greater than avoiding the risk of being searched. Stratton reduced his speed to a normal pace as he approached. One of the soldiers studied him as he passed. Stratton could feel the man’s eyes on his back as he walked into the city but no one called after him.

  A few yards in Stratton stopped at a fork in the walkway.Vehicles could not navigate this part of the city. In fact, all but a couple of the central roads were closed to wheeled traffic except the numerous barrows. The walkway straight ahead was crowded with people and tightly lined with kiosks and one-room shops, their wares spilling into the walkway leaving barely enough room for the barrows and people to move along. The path to the left dropped steeply away and led into a less crowded residential area. There was trash everywhere and grey water, thickened by filth, trickled along gutters and formed stagnant pools in the cracks and depressions of the stepped walkways. Every surface was stone: the walls, the road underfoot and the surrounding battlements, disfigured in places with patches of modern concrete sloppily applied, and graffiti could be found everywhere, some of it hundreds of years old. Only the older men wore traditional Arab dress, black-and-white, or red-and-white kaffiyehs which defined their tribes, held on to their heads with black aggals, their bodies covered in dishdashas or abayas, long one-piece outfits which reached the ground. Most of the younger men wore plain, or sometimes colourful, Western clothes. The women were also divided between Western and traditional dress but not so much by age, with many young girls wearing scarves over their heads and thawbs, a traditional gown sometimes decorated with colourful sequins.

  Stratton took the map he had picked up from the hotel reception from his pocket and studied it. He decided on the busy route through the market and headed down the widely stepped walkway that had a narrow central path levelled out for the barrows. There was a loud shout behind him and he stepped out of the way just in time to avoid a young boy navigating an overburdened barrow down the path through the crowd, using his sandal on the wheel as a brake and looking as if he was only barely in control.

  All the while Stratton scanned in every direction and inside the shops for the giant Russian. The Palestinians were not a tall race and he hoped it would be easy to spot Zhilev, but there was no sign of him.

  The crowded walkway threaded into the central mass of buildings where it became a low, narrow tunnel still lined with shops. It was well lit with electric lights but there were nooks, crannies and even tighter alleyways branching off on both sides into residential areas, a veritable labyrinth.

  After a hundred yards or so Stratton paused at a junction and looked at his three new options, comparing them quickly to the map. The right path led to a flight of stairs, left led downhill in the direction of the great mosque and straight ahead, through the thinning crowd, led deeper into the city, where a group of soldiers approached on patrol. Stratton chose the left path.

  A few yards down the walkway he passed under a low arch and back out into sunlight. The shops gave way to homes where washing and small children were in abundance. Frustration began to creep over him as he realised how overwhelming the endless alleyways and tunnels were becoming. The old city was only half a mile square but the miles of walkways turned it into a maze. The horrifying truth
was dawning that the only way he was going find Zhilev was through luck, and that was not a good basis on which to mount a search operation. A boy grabbed his arm in an effort to persuade him to buy something from his shop and Stratton pulled away so aggressively the boy almost toppled over.

  Stratton could feel the stress rising in him along with mounting doubts about what he was doing. He stopped to look back at the junction he had just left as the tail end soldier passed through it along the walkway he had taken from the city entrance. The urge to turn around, head out of the city and get as far away as possible grew, threatening to corrupt his commitment. Fear was also beginning to nibble at him, fear of failing, as well as dying. He suddenly felt pathetically helpless. It had been a long time since he had experienced any kind of panic and it was starting to rise steadily inside of him. He took control of it and pushed it out of his stomach where it was massing, and concentrated on himself, who he was, what he had achieved in his life and the many dangers he had survived when he should not have. He walked on down the hill, his efforts working, but it still did not affect the source of the problem: to believe in himself he had to doubt Gabriel. If Gabriel was right, he was wrong and Zhilev was going to detonate his nuclear bomb, and he was going to die.

  Stratton broke into a run, unsure where he was going. It was the worst feeling in the world.

  Zhilev stepped through the Zion Gate and stopped to look around. To his surprise there were no soldiers in sight. He had originally planned to enter by the Damascus Gate after completing his reconnaissance the day before, but as he walked through the entrance hall, he saw a group of Israeli soldiers and police checking people’s bags. He stopped dead. Zhilev could not afford to let anyone inspect the log now that the panel cover had broken off. He turned around, pushed through a crowd and made his way back out on to the street. Entering the city was probably the final obstacle to his target and he wanted to avoid all risks where possible. He consulted his map of the old city and considered the eight gates. It was worth checking the other seven.

  He headed east towards the Herod Gate, decided to ignore it because it was too close to the Damascus Gate and turned the corner of the city walls towards the Golden Gate. That entrance was closed and so he continued south to the next corner and then west towards the Dung Gate.

  A couple of soldiers were sitting outside the gate enjoying a smoke and although several people passed through without being stopped, Zhilev decided to carry on and check out the last four. If they were fouled, he would head back to the Dung Gate and try his luck with the smokers.

  At the southernmost point of the city, the Zion Gate was practically deserted. He had not reconnoitred this section but the map was detailed enough to lead him to where he wanted to go. It showed he was in the Armenian quarter and he set off, following the walkways east a few yards then turned north for several hundred more until he reached the Holy Sepulchre, the church built around Calvary and where Jesus was nailed to the cross.

  Zhilev stopped to check his map, completely ignoring a man trying to get him to step into his shop to look at his selection of carpets. Zhilev did not have far to go. He looked ahead to where the short walkway disappeared around a corner and set off, leaving the carpet salesman, already depressed by the scarcity of tourists, to limp back to his shop. This was a quiet part of the city with no one else around and as Zhilev turned the corner, he literally bumped into a couple of soldiers coming in the other direction, nearly knocking one of them over.

  ‘Izvinitye,’ Zhilev apologised immediately, as surprised as the soldier who was half his mass.

  The soldier regained his composure as his two friends looked on, one somewhat accusingly at Zhilev, the other grinning at his friend’s misfortune.

  ‘Gavaritye pa-russki,’ the soldier said, looking up cockily at the giant in front of him.

  ‘Yes,’ Zhilev replied. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I did not see you.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ the soldier asked in a guttural accent. It was obvious to Zhilev this boy had not learned his Russian in the Motherland and was no doubt the son of one of the many immigrants who had come to Israel.

  ‘Latvia,’ Zhilev said.

  ‘So you’re not real Russian then,’ the soldier said with an attitude.

  It did not faze Zhilev in the slightest, and not just because he wanted to be on his way as soon as possible and without any fuss. He hated being talked to rudely by children, especially when they carried guns, but his contempt for this little one was such that he was not inclined to waste any anger on him.

  ‘I feel Russian,’ Zhilev said, forcing a smile which did not produce a likewise response from the soldier.

  ‘Where are you going in such a hurry?’ the soldier asked.

  ‘I’m not in a hurry. I was reading my map and did not see you.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  Zhilev glanced around at the other two soldiers who had continued on their way behind him and did not appear to share their friend’s interest.

  ‘Nothing in particular,’ Zhilev said. ‘I’m just enjoying the city.’

  ‘What’s in the bag?’

  Zhilev’s temperature went up a notch though his eyes remained steady. He took the bag off his shoulder. ‘Memorabilia.’

  ‘You know there are some things you cannot take out of Israel,’ the soldier said, being a pain.

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘Holy relics. Everyone comes here expecting to take something home but for some pieces you need special permission. What have you got?’

  ‘A piece of wood,’ Zhilev said, his smile appearing again.

  ‘Wood?’

  ‘Yes. I picked it up from a forest by the Dead Sea. My sister likes to carve and I thought it would be nice to have something carved from a piece of wood from the Holy Land.’

  The soldier was untouched by Zhilev’s efforts to portray himself as a sensitive individual.

  ‘Let me see it,’ the soldier demanded.

  Zhilev held the neck of his bag open. The soldier leaned over to examine the contents but was not satisfied, that or he was being deliberately obtrusive.

  ‘Take it out,’ he said coldly, transferring his Uzi sub-machine gun to his left hand so that he could wipe his nose with the sleeve of his right.

  Zhilev didn’t move, staring into the soldier’s eyes. ‘Yoni, let’s go,’ one of the other soldiers called out from behind Zhilev. They had moved further around the corner and were only just in view.

  ‘One minute,’ the soldier said to them. ‘I want to see it,’ he said to Zhilev.

  Zhilev slowly bent over and put the bag on the floor, glancing to his side long enough to see the other two soldiers inching away around the corner, engrossed in their conversation. He reached into the bag with both hands, gripped the log, slowly pulled it out and stood upright.

  The soldier looked at the log and then at Zhilev with a smirk. ‘You’re carrying around a block of wood,’ he said, emphasising the stupidity of it.

  The soldier put his hand on the log and rubbed the bark then pulled on the bottom of it to turn it over, but Zhilev held it firmly. The soldier looked at him with an annoyed expression.

  ‘Turn it over,’ he said.

  Zhilev glanced over his shoulder to see the other two had moved out of sight and he did not waste a second. With lightning speed his hand gripped the soldier around the throat so strongly the man’s tongue flew out and he dropped the Uzi on its harness to grab Zhilev’s hands. Zhilev walked quickly forward, pushing the soldier ahead of him who stumbled backwards trying desperately to pull the vice from his throat. Zhilev held him like a rag doll and shoved him round a corner into a narrower walkway. The soldier could feel the life draining from him as his brain screamed for the oxygen that was being restricted because of the grip on his carotid artery. His hands flicked down to his Uzi and fumbled to get a hold of it but they were torn between removing the hand around his neck and gripping the gun. Before he could wrap his fingers aroun
d the weapon grip, Zhilev raised the log and brought it crashing down on to the soldier’s skull with tremendous force, splitting the skin open and severing the artery that runs around the outside of the skull.The blow cracked the log open and a chunk of it flew off to expose a dull metal sphere. Blood immediately spurted over Zhilev and he raised the device to hit the soldier once again, but he felt the man’s weight increase as his knees gave out. The soldier let go of his weapon and his hands dropped to his sides as the nerves ceased to send signals to his muscles.

  Zhilev had to move quickly. He let the soldier drop unconscious to the ground, blood seeping from the wound on his head, and unceremoniously yanked the Uzi strap from around his neck, then ran past the walkway where the other soldiers were standing, and through an arch that led to the market beneath the buildings.

  The soldiers, who had returned to see what was keeping their colleague, saw the walkway empty, then Zhilev run across the end of it. Their instincts immediately cried alarm and they hurried to the junction. On seeing their colleague lying on the ground they ran to him to find he was not breathing. One pulled the soldier on to his back to try and revive him while the other set off in pursuit of Zhilev.

  The soldier ran into the market tunnel, the M16 in his shoulder ready to fire, and stopped to scan about. The tunnel ran straight in both directions and was not very crowded in this section, a handful of Palestinians going about their business, but there was no sign of the large Russian. It seemed impossible in the short space of time, but he had disappeared.

  Raz’s car arrived at the street above the Damascus Gate and pulled to a stop, blocking traffic. Ignoring the honking horns he climbed out and made his way to the top of the steps. He was met by one of his agents who quickly explained how Stratton and the man he was with had split up, and that he had followed Stratton, who was running, and lost him outside the gate, believing he had entered the old city.